Rumpelstiltskin Retold
by Paper Castles
Summary: "You will spin each to gold, and when the dawn arrives, my guards will retrieve them. Should you succeed, my son will take you as his wife." Maerwyn shivered, her body growing cold. "And should I fail?" She whispered. He did not answer, for she already knew.
1. Chapter 1

**Rumpelstiltskin Retold**

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Part One

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Maerwyn leaned breathlessly against the crumbling stone wall, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. A soft, sensual warmth had enveloped her, and the air about her seemed to dance, spurred by the pounding of her heart. Callum had kissed her soundly, his large hands tangling in the long waves of her hair. He had pulled her tightly against him, and she had exhaled, her senses swirling-aware, if only briefly, of the hot summer wind stirring the poplar trees which encircled them.

Now, standing beneath the church eaves, she was still, watching his blue eyes caress her.

"Prettiest curl in the land," he whispered, holding one glistening gold strand between his fingers.

Maerwyn batted the curl away, allowing herself a giggle.

"It's the truth," he murmured, his eyes roving over her. "You've a head fit for a queen."

Maerwyn blushed, and the warmth within her hummed. "Your queen?" She teased, brushing her hand against his cheek.

"Mine, and only mine," he responded. "Close your eyes."

"Why?" She demanded impishly, unable to contain her grin.

"Maerwyn," he prodded.

She laughed lightly, and let him close her lids.

There was a rummaging in the grass, and the sound of snapping stalks. Then a soft hand pressed into her own. "You may open them," he whispered.

She looked down at her haphazard wildflower bouquet, several errant daisy petals fluttering gently to the ground. She smiled as his hands slid back around her waist. His lips touched her throat, his palms curving against her hips beneath the cloth of her dress. A spark ran down the length of her spine, and she felt herself grow shy.

"Callum," she said uncertainly, her cheeks hot.

"What is it?" he answered huskily, his breath stirring several tendrils of her hair.

Maerwyn paused. She did not know what she meant to say, only that her pulse both raced and soared, and that she felt it wavering on some indeterminable precipice, ready to fall.

His head had lifted from its place at her neck, and regarded her steadily.

"Callum," she began a second time, the words heavy in her mouth. "I-"

The squawking broke loudly into the silence, heralding the arrival of travelers on the dusty road before them. Callum stiffened, his face tightening wearily.

"It's only Stefan's chickens," she teased.

"He'll have his sons with him," he answered quietly.

Maerwyn smiled, taking his hands gently into her own. "And his cows," she grinned, referencing Stefan's practice of taking his animals out to graze in the fields nearby. The chickens, a local amusement, had made it a habit to follow him.

Callum pulled sharply away from her. ""Don't be foolish," he answered impatiently."You know very well where that would lead."

She recoiled instantly, stung by his dismissal. "It's idle gossip Callum," she whispered. "Nothing more."

"Nothing more?" Callum repeated disbelievingly. "Maerwyn, gossip is never idle."

"Yes, but-"

"To be seen behind the church wall with the miller's daughter? Don't play the simpleton."

Her temper flared unexpectedly with his tone. "Will you disown me every time prying eyes come to call?" She demanded.

Callum laughed. "The mind of a woman," he said, shaking his head.

"Will you?" She persisted.

"I have no choice in the matter. My father would have my head, and you know very well Iseult is my betrothed." He leaned closer to her, taking her chin within his hand, so that her gaze was level with his own. "That does not mean I cannot affirm you every evening," he whispered silkily. "For your maidenhead will be my wedding prize."

She stared at him, wordless, her eyes blurring. "I must go," he said, dropping his hand and effectively dismissing her. "We will see each other tomorrow at noon." He leaned downwards, placing a swift, fleeting kiss upon her cheek. Then he was gone, disappearing into the shadow of the trees.

She stared after him, a familiar sense of revulsion flooding her in his absence. How was it that he always wooed her enough to forget?

"Maerwyn!"

She turned, startled, to see Stefan waving to her. A number of cows plodded languidly behind him.

"Lass, your father is looking for you. Have you found something here, behind the church?" He craned his neck toward her, as though expecting to uncover some hidden recess of berries.

"A kiss, no doubt," his eldest son Laughlan snickered.

"Only resting," Maerwyn said quickly, picking up her basket. "What of my father Stefan? Is he ill?" Her heart quickened at the thought, for her father had been lamenting an ache in his shoulders every evening by the fire.

"Not ill, but not well," Stefan answered gravely.

"As always," Laughlan grinned.

Maerwyn felt her cheeks redden, as she always did when the townsfolk made mention of her father. His mouth spun more lies than truth, weaving stories so fanciful even the children laughed. It was a talent both lauded and reviled, for it was only in the tavern, surrounded by the drunkards, that he found his exploits venerated.

"Thank you Stefan," she said softly, "I will see to him." She clutched the basket tightly to her chest, aware of Laughlan's eyes following her as she made her way down the path. Her face burned with shame, for her father, and for herself- the miller's daughter-pretty enough to be kissed by a Lord's son, but not worthy to be seen in his presence. Why did Callum sing such praises of her beauty, when his fear of discovery seemingly denounced her as the lowliest of women? She did not understand it.

She was still turning these thoughts over in her mind when she entered the gate which surrounded their cottage. Set aside from the rest of the village, its isolation had once enclosed an idyllic paradise. She remembered it vividly-the apple blossoms of the trees which had lined the walkway, and the burbling stream which had meandered through the grass, pooling into the pond which housed the milling wheel. There had been marigolds in clusters about the bridge, and sparrows nesting in the pines.

But now, standing before its sagging thatch roof, there seemed not a remnant of its past. The trees stood bare, the stream empty. It had run dry during the drought, leaving the pond to cloud over and thicken with algae. The milling wheel had rotted and weakened within it, heavily submerged in the reeds which had gradually choked its path.

It brought a pain to her heart to see it so, a feeling which deepened when her father emerged from the door, wearied and bent.

"Maerwyn," he called.

Her heart started at the sound of her name on his lips, for he had not used it since the day of her mother's passing.

"Yes, father?" She called, hurrying to meet him. His form moved with a familiar sway, one that spoke of a visit to the tavern. She caught him just as he fell, leaning heavily into her shoulder. She staggered, struggling beneath his weight.

"Father, why do you do this?" She murmured, attempting to raise him.

"Maerwyn, I have wronged you," he said feebly, his voice breaking. The alcohol swirled from his breath, and she turned her head away from it.

"Father, must you go to the tavern every evening?" She said tiredly, leaning him gently against the wooden door frame.

"I did not go to the tavern," he answered, attempting to clear his voice. "Oh Maerwyn, I have wronged you." A strangled cry broke suddenly from his throat, and his head fell into his hands.

"What is it father?" She demanded soothingly. "Is it money you owe? Have you run a bill again?"

"The mill can no longer sustain us Maerwyn," he rasped, "the wheat fields are dried. There will be another drought. There is no bread...no money to be made."

"I know it father, but I will find work with Stefan again," she answered patiently. "He will allow me to help his wife with the spinning, and pay us in wool as he did last year."

"The spinning!" Her father cried, taking her hands into his own. He raised both to his lips, kissing each fervently. "What I would give to see such glory! That your hands might truly spin such beauty! May God bless you!"

She pulled her hands away, frightened. "Father, what is the meaning of this?"

"I could not pay the tax," he moaned. "Our last coin was spent on the eve before last. It was all I could do, Maerwyn, all I could do."

"Do? What did you do?" She demanded, staring at him. His eyes had grown wild, and a strange, dancing light blazed within them.

"The King!" He whispered. "The King took mercy upon us."

"The King?" Maerwyn repeated, startled.

"I did not pay the tax," her father continued. "Our land was to be forfeit. But the truth fell from my lips, and we were saved."

"The truth? Father!" she said, grasping him as he sagged against the door frame again. "Father, did you not pay the tax today? Have we been fined?"

"Saved," he repeated. "By gold from straw."

"Father, answer me," Maerwyn repeated desperately. "Have we been fined? Will they take the Mill?"

"No Maerwyn, it is not the Mill they want," he whispered. "It is you."

She dropped her hands from his shoulders, and he sank roughly to the ground.

"What have you told them!" Maerwyn cried. "What have you said?"

"Straw from gold, and gold from straw, this is what the miller saw," he answered, the light in his eyes still dancing.

"Gold from straw?" Maerwyn repeated.

"They will come today," he answered weakly. "There has been an announcement."

"Of what? Who is to come?" Maerwyn demanded frantically.

The light in her father's eyes dimmed suddenly, and he slumped dejectedly to the ground.

"Father!" She cried, falling to her knees before him.

A trumpet sounded in the distance, and the pounding of many hooves echoed through the garden. Maerwyn turned to watch the dust cloud form on the path from which she'd come, the glint of armor blinking beneath the sun.

"What will they do?" She cried again, shaking her father desperately. "What have you told them?"

The trumpet sounded again, and seven black horses thundered toward her, drawing to a loud halt before the gate. Maerwyn shrank back against the cottage wall, fear flooding her veins.

She watched the largest of the knights dismount, and walk stiffly toward her.

"Are you Maerwyn, daughter of Ifan?" He demanded.

"Yes," she whispered. She watched his eyes rove over the slumped form of her father, and then the dilapidated state of the cottage.

"It appears your gift has been sparsely spent," he smiled, his lips twisting with mirth.

"I have no gift," Maerwyn whispered. She dropped to her knees, her shoulders shaking. "I beg of you, take mercy on my father. I will pay the debt."

"Then pay," the knight answered.

"I cannot pay it now," Maerwyn stumbled, "if you might only grant me a day, I would pay it-"

"Then you will attend court, by order of his majesty, the King."

"You do not understand," Maerwyn cried desperately, "I am no sorcerer, I cannot-"

"Rise!" The knight thundered, dragging her to her feet.

"My father is a drunkard, he was only spinning tales," she begged, tears blurring her eyes. "Please, take mercy on us."

"You will be silent. Your debt is to be repaid."

He lifted her roughly by the waist as she wept, forcing her onto his horse. She felt the cold wall of his armor press against her as he mounted, pulling sharply at the reins. The horse reared, then broke into a gallop, the other six riders falling swiftly into line behind it.

She understood, then, what her father had meant when he'd told her there had been an announcement. For the villagers had begun to line the town path to see her off, their curious faces probing her own. Some jeered while others gazed on in sympathy, but all parted for the passing of the horses, bowing their heads in sign of reverence to the King.

It was the sight of Callum's shocked face, standing among the crowd, that brought fresh tears to her eyes. His father, Lord Henrik, stood beside him, his dark eyes regarding her pityingly. She would be a laughing stock when she returned, mocked for her fathers cowardice and taunted for her inability to clear his name.

She turned her head away, wincing at the heavy, sharp gait of the horse thrusting her painfully against the saddle. The village houses sped past them, and the sea of faces melded into one, a blur of eyes which followed her mercilessly, spurring the terror in her heart. Would she be killed when the truth was uncovered? Hanged as punishment for her deception? Her thoughts raced, searching desperately for a way to to make amends. But there was no answer she could find, and the helplessness of it stilled her, bringing her racing heart, to full, startling awareness. She would die.

The words pealed in her thoughts like a bell, echoing their horror. It was then she fell into a stupor, losing herself within the deepest recesses of her mind as she struggled to accept their enormity. She did not know how much time had passed when the landscape began to change, turning from the brown of the fields to the green of the moors. It was only the sight of the castle, appearing from within the fine, gray mist which had flooded the land, that brought her back to sudden, conscious awareness.

The horses drew to an abrupt halt before the moat, pawing the ground impatiently as the drawbridge was lowered. A soldier standing at the watch tower waved them through, and they began their steep ascent of the hill on which the castle rested. Maerwyn allowed herself a brief moment of wonder, gazing in astonishment at the height of the turrets, and the scarlet banners which fluttered from their peaks. Iron creaked loudly as the gate which sealed the inner courtyard was lifted, and the horses plodded through. The knight behind her dismounted, and pulled her roughly from the horse. She swayed, her limbs aching from the ride, and gazed about her fearfully.

There was a strange sort of silence growing around them, a curious, wondering stillness that lifted the eyes of every man, woman, and child to her own. She felt a sickening sense of dread engulf her, as sudden understanding descended. It was evident, by the look on their faces, that her father had sung her praises, embellishing her supposed talent to the utmost degree.

She felt her heart pound. She had aroused the interest of every soul in the palace, and just as they watched her attempt the impossible, they would be there to watch her fail. "Girl," the knight barked. "This way." She was led forcefully through the courtyard, gripped tightly on either side by a guard to prevent escape. She felt her feet become leaden as they walked, each step drawing her closer to a fate her father had set. How could he have been so foolish?

A set of wooden doors opened to them, and they entered a long hall, at the end of which stood a throne. Light poured in through high, vaulted windows, the glass panes of which depicted various fanciful exploits. Maerwyn let her eyes settle on the window nearest them, allowing herself to take on the strength of the dragon shown in its engraving.

The guards stopped suddenly, and she was jerked forward, the knight who had brought her to the palace announcing her presence.

"Maerwyn, daughter of Ifan," he said, bowing. Maerwyn fell instantly to her knees, her palms slick with sweat. She could feel her pulse within her ears, and was aware of a sharp, heavy gaze sliding slowly over her form.

"You may rise," said a voice.

She came slowly to her feet, allowing her eyes to rise unsteadily to his own.

A tall, darkly bearded man sat before her, his blue eyes set deeply beneath heavy brows. He wore a long, scarlet robe, the ends of which had been trimmed in ermine. A gold scepter rested in his left hand, and rubies glistened in the crown at his temple. To his right sat three young men, each dressed in a silken tunic. They regarded her as he did-silently, and speculatively.

"So you are the daughter of Ifan," he said, his deep voice ringing within the stillness.

"I am," Maerwyn answered, her voice trembling.

"And you spin straw to gold," he continued.

"I-I do," she whispered, aware it would be futile to refute.

"And why have you never shared this talent?" He demanded.

"I-I thought it wise to conceal, Your Majesty," she whispered again.

"Conceal from your king? Was it greed that brought you to this conclusion?"

"Not greed Your Majesty," Maerwyn said quickly. "Fear. I thought it...I thought it unjust."

"Unjust?"

"Unjust to create such wealth, when others had so little," Maerwyn continued, amazed at the lies which suddenly spouted from her lips.

"A chivalrous effort," the King answered. "But misdirected." He made a brief motion with his hand, and a servant appeared, carrying a spool of straw on a pillow.

"Your father spoke so highly of your skill, I must ask you to demonstrate it before us." He ushered her toward the pillow. "How do you begin?"

Maerwyn felt her blood run cold, terror seizing her once more. "Y-your Majesty," she stuttered. "I-I...I cannot do it here. My skill requires...a...a spindle made of oak."

"Oak?" The Kind repeated contemplatively. "Very well, I shall have nine and twenty such spindles prepared for you."

"Nine and twenty?" Maerwyn repeated weakly.

"You will spin each to gold, and when the dawn arrives, my guards will retrieve them. Should you succeed, your debt will be repaid. Should you fail, your father will be hanged."

Maerwyn smothered the cry which erupted from her throat, and bowed her head in submission. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Lucan," the King said, motioning to the dark haired young man at his right. "Escort her."

Lucan nodded and rose, motioning for the guards to follow him. Together, they exited the hall, the guards enclosing her on either side, once more barring escape.

They followed the prince down a narrow corridor, then down a set of flagstone steps. All the while, the guards armor clanked, marking every footfall. Maerwyn winced at its overpowering sound, the noise seemingly fortelling her end. Would they march her to the hangmans noose? Would she see her father die? Prince Lucan paused at a great iron door at the base of the steps. A key was placed into its lock, and it opened grindingly, allowing a cloud of dampened air to escape. Maerwyn felt the bile rise in her throat as they marched on, this time down a spiral staircase. Water dripped down the walls, pooling on the steps beneath their feet.

When they had reached the bottom, and yet another iron door, Prince Lucan raised one hand. The guards fell back, and Maerwyn was motioned to come forward. She did so hesitantly, her hands shaking so heavily that she tucked them within the folds of her skirt. The prince pulled a second key from his pocket, and placed into the lock. This door sprang open easily, giving view to a gaping, cavernous stone room filled with three piles of straw. At its center stood a spinning wheel, and a wooden stool. A single candle sputtered in a holder on the ground, casting a wavering circle of light.

Three servants appeared behind them, carrying baskets which they quickly deposited on the ground beside the spinning wheel. When they had filed out, the prince pointed at them.

"There are nine and twenty oak made spindles within the baskets, as you requested. Your are to spin each to gold by the light of this candle. When its wick has ceased to burn, you will present them to the King. Do you understand your task?"

Maerwyn nodded, her heart leaden within her chest. She watched the prince glanced out at the guards standing patiently beyond the doorway, then pull something swiftly from within the folds of his tunic. He pressed it quickly into her palm.

"Replace it when the first runs low," he whispered. She looked down, and saw he had gifted her with a smaller, shorter candle and realized what it meant. More time.

She looked up in astonishment, only to see the pity flash within his eyes. Before she could thank him, his back had turned.

"You will present your gifts to the court tomorrow," he said, resuming his normal tone. "Now we will leave you to begin." He paused at the door, sending her one last, fleeting glance, before allowing it to shut, with a heavy, clanging finality that pierced her very soul.

When the last of their footfalls had died away, and the silence had encased her completely, Maerwyn threw herself to the floor and wept bitterly.

For it was tomorrow that her father would die.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two

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Maerwyn stared at the shadows flickering against the walls listlessly. Water dripped in a steady stream down the slick, stone walls, echoing loudly throughout the silent chamber. The candle flickered as the darkness pressed down, held back only by its single, wavering pool of light.

The terror within her seemed to have abated, numbed by a certain resignation to her fate. She had, in the hours since they'd left her, stupidly attempted to spin, but the straw had crumbled from her hands, stiff and dry as dust. In desperation, she had prayed, bartering her helpless soul to whichever deity deigned to listen.

_Please, please, my father's soul for mine._

The tears had come again, first softly, then heavily, anguish flooding her heart. Still, the straw remained. There would be no other way to appease him. The King demanded gold from straw, and when he saw she had failed him, it was her father who would pay the debt. In the hangman's noose, this very day. The image brought on a fresh wave of tears, and she threw herself wretchedly to the ground, her resolve once again crumbling. Her shoulders shook, her cries increasing in volume until a strange and sudden hissing sound shook the chamber. Maerwyn raised her head, startled, as her sobbing breaths abated.

"Who is there?" She demanded weakly, the fear in her tone apparent.

Had the guards returned?

There was no reply, only a slight movement within the shadows. A crackling, vibrant energy pulsed suddenly about the room, seemingly infiltrating every crevice. Maerwyn raised herself uneasily to her knees, wiping one hand against her tear-stained cheeks."Is there anyone there?" She asked again, sharply aware of the uneasiness settling within her. It might have been a laugh that answered her from the darkness, yet the pitch of it was low and rustling, like the scattering of leaves.

A chill slithered down her spine as a narrow, buckled leather boot stepped into the pool of candle light. It was followed by the emergence of two green clothed legs, and a tunic secured by a rattling, long-stringed belt, it's tips woven through with a number of rustling beads. The face appeared last, large and pointed, with two deeply set black eyes and a severely sharpened nose. Maerwyn drew back, her breath quickening as the little man approached her. He was an imp she realized, or perhaps a dwarf, no taller than her knee. His gait was quick and fluid, and he examined her curiously.

"Why are you crying?" He demanded. His voice was deep, yet reedy, unnervingly child-like in its inflection.

She stared at him, wondering at the odd, unblinking way he regarded her. Was it a dream? Had she conjured him?

"I must spin this straw to gold," she whispered, motioning toward the piles.

He made a strange sound within his throat, and walked over to the straw nearest her. When he had plucked a single blade of it, he rubbed it experimentally between his long, curved fingers.

"And what would you give me, should I spin it for you?" He demanded casually, still regarding the straw within his hand.

"I have nothing to give you," Maerwyn answered dejectedly.

"And the necklace?" He asked, still not looking at her.

"The necklace?" She began, before uttering a sound of realization. Her hand flew to her throat, clutching at the charm that hung there. It had been a gift from her mother, a small trinket purchased from a travelling merchant, delicate and of little value.

"But it is all I have of her," Maerwyn whispered, her eyes filling at the thought of parting with the last keepsake her mother had bestowed.

The imp snapped his head toward her impatiently. "Well?" He pressed.

Maerwyn closed her eyes, then undid the clasp at her throat. When she opened them, his hand was waiting, palm up, beneath her. She dropped it into his grasp, and watched his long fingers curl over it greedily. Another curious sound emitted from his throat, as though he were pleased, and he tucked the necklace in a crevice within his belt.

"How shall you do it?" She asked wonderingly.

He ignored her, and went instead to draw the stool toward the spinning wheel, seating himself stiffly upon it. In one hand he held a spindle, and in the other, a fistful of straw. He wound the straw roughly about the spindle, then placed it before the wheel, his right foot pressing down on the treadle. The wheel broke into motion, turning slowly. She watched as he grabbed another fistful of straw, feeding it haphazardly onto the spindle as the pace of his foot increased.

Then, without warning, he threw himself into motion. A jerking, twitching rhythm took hold of his form, and a stream of nonsensical words poured suddenly from his lips. Maerwyn backed away, frightened, aware that the atmosphere within the chamber had become charged, as though imbued with an eerie intensity.

The treadle pumped madly, his body shaking as the wheel spun, the spokes blurring together as the straw flew outwards in crumbling tufts. A dust cloud grew about his feet, nearly shrouding him as he pushed the pedal still faster, wordless sounds emitted piercingly from his throat. On the wall behind him, his shadow seemed to grow, writhing in size as it twisted and turned, seemingly leering above her as the spinning wheel rattled, its base shaking with the effort he exerted.

Maerwyn watched, entranced, as he grabbed yet another fistful of straw, feeding it maniacally into the wheel. His eyes glowed bright within his face, blazing and wild, as his body shook. It was then that she realized his sounds had turned to singing, a pitched, unearthly wailing which rose and sank in timber, a rhyming verse he appeared to repeat again and again. Sparks flew from the wheel as the dust cloud cleared, and a glimmering began to emanate from his hands. It grew brighter, until the twisting fibers turned smooth and golden, sliding like silk onto the spool.

She gasped, rushing to touch it, unable to believe it could be true. It slid like gossamer between her fingers, weightless and gleaming.

"Gold," she whispered, awed.

The room was illuminated by the light emitted from the shining spools, and she hurried to gather them as they flew to the ground, rolling brightly across the flagstones. The spinning wheel had slowed, and as Maerwyn looked about the chamber, she realized the basket had been filled. "You've done it so quickly," she wondered aloud, amazed at the speed with which he had conjured the spools within her arms. He said nothing, and she saw that his eyes still danced, black as river stones within the candlelight. When they had dimmed, and the seeming mania of the spinning had left his form, he stood, and blew the dust residue from the spindle. Then he took it, sliding it within some hidden recess of his tunic.

"What will I tell them?" Maerwyn asked. "How shall I-wait!"

But he was gone, disappearing with the same faint hiss of sound that had preceded his entrance. The energy of the room evaporated instantly, returning it to its previous state of isolation.

"Come back!" Maerwyn called frantically.

A faint knock sounded at the chamber door, and she whirled to answer it. Had he returned?

The small wooden panel which sealed the peep hole to the door slid open, and two gray eyes gazed back at her.

"Have you...finished?" The voice came softly, as though afraid of being overheard.

"Your majesty!" Maerwyn gasped, recognizing the voice of Prince Lucan at once. She dropped quickly into an obligatory curtsy. The gray eyes averted. "Your father waits at the noose. The guards will bring your spools to the king shortly."

"I have completed the task," Maerwyn said breathlessly, the sudden enormity of this realization overwhelming her. Had she truly succeeded? Would the spools vanish the minute the dawn touched their glowing threads?

The eyes regarded her silently for a moment, and then the wooden panel slid shut and the door was thrust open. He stood there, wordless upon the threshold, his face aghast. She picked up a spool, and proffered it to him, watching as his fingers closed over it wonderingly.

"It's true, then?" He demanded, his eyes lifting to her own in awe.

Maerwyn nodded feebly, feeling the guilt twinge within her. He placed the spool back in the basket, his stance suddenly imperial. "I will halt the proceedings in the courtyard at once," he said briskly. "Your father will be handsomely rewarded."

Maerwyn released a deep sigh of gratitude, relief flooding her form. A thundering sounded on the stone stairs above them, and the prince straightened. "The King will see to you now," he said, his voice once more resuming its natural stiff tone.

The thundering increased, until the footfalls of the guards became individually apparent, and the flash of armor filled the room. Maerwyn shrank backwards as a gasp echoed throughout the jostling group, and a whispered chatter commenced. It was silenced as a tall, slowly moving figure parted the crowd, coming to a pause before the basket of gleaming spools. Maerwyn held her breath as the King stooped to lift a single spool, turning it over in his hands. When he turned to her, his eyes were strangely desirious, as though having just discovered a yearning he had never known to exist.

"Maerwyn, daughter of Ifan, your father is released," he said, his tone ringing authoritatively into the silence. He placed the spool back into the basket.

"What blessings we will reap, with such talent in our midst," he murmured, approaching her slowly. "Have the Gods touched you child?"

"I do not know," Maerwyn whispered.

"It is a gift to be honored, a gift to be prided," he continued, as though he had not heard her. "A gift to gild our kingdom with the wealth it has righteously been chosen to recieve."

His blue eyes darkened, his dark brows drawing together. "Is that not what they have told you?"

"The Gods?" Maerwyn repeated, her voice catching.

He inclined his head in his agreement.

"Yes, Your Majesty," she said quickly.

"Then it is done," he said, sweeping his hand across the room. Maerwyn waited, uncertain over what was to occur next. Would she be released? Or would she be taken to her father?

"Lucan," the King said, beckoning his son toward him. The boy approached obediently, leaning forward as his father spoke quietly in his ear. When the King had finished his instruction, he drew back, revealing Lucan's paled face.

"I will see to it at dawn," the King announced, addressing no one in particular. Then he exited the room, leaving only a handful of guards behind him. These three went immediately to Maerwyn's side, gripping her forcefully by the shoulders. She cried out in surprise, frightened at the sudden turn of events.

"What have I done?" She gasped. "Is he not pleased?"

The prince avoided her eyes, leading them from the chamber and through a second door within the wall of the hallway. A second set of stairs followed, spiralling ever deeper into the darkness. Maerwyn choked back her tears as they descended, fear flooding her once more. The king had deceived her. The hardness of his countenance only served to veil his greed. She had given him his gold. What more could he desire? And what of her father? Was he truly saved?

The guards had halted, and Maerwyn was pushed forward as the prince motioned toward an open doorway. She gasped, her eyes drinking in the enormity of the room in horror. Not three piles of straw but dozens, some so high they brushed the ceiling. And in the center, a spinning wheel, twenty baskets, and two candles.

"There are three hundred oak-made spindles," the prince began, "you are to spin each to gold by the light of these candles. When their wicks have ceased to burn, you will present them to the King. Do you understand your task?"

It took everything within her to hold the floodgates which threatened to spill down her cheeks, as she attempted to answer him.

"Should you succeed," he continued, "your father will be made a Lord. Should you fail, you will hang in his place."

_You will hang in his place._

The world about her seemed to still, enclosed in a thickening fog which shrouded all sound.

"We will leave you to your task," the prince said, and she gazed at him numbly, aware the emotion in his eyes had vanished, replaced with the empty ambivalence of before. The guards left them, and the prince followed, the door's clanging finality now a familiar nail to her heart. She gasped for breath, sinking slowly to her knees amidst the straw. Had her freedom become a dream?

"Are you there?" She whispered brokenly into the darkness, her feeble heart beating pitifully fast. Would he come? Would he save her once more? But what could she give him? The necklace was gone.

"Are you there?" she whispered again. "Please. Please..."

But the chamber was silent, and she buckled beneath it, her head bowing as her shoulders shook. The imp would never return, and her miracle was not lasting. For she knew now, what she could not escape.

That she would die in her father's place.


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three

* * *

Maerwyn sighed and set her basket on the ground, wearily wiping the sweat from her brow. In the hours since she had been left, the chamber appeared to have grown, doubling with such size that she feared it's walls had been cursed. The air too appeared to have thickened, so stagnant it seemed to hang cloud-like above the floor. And the humidity was debilitating, enough to stifle even the rats, the corpses of which Maerwyn had already discovered within the straw. She shuddered, suppressing the thought, and rose, carrying her basket wearily toward the wheel.

She had spun enough straw to fill three spools, yet none of it held. Instead it cracked, splintering to shreds as it flew from the spindle, unchangeably brittle. She had tried again and again, clinging to the hope that each new basket held the promise of transforming inexplicably to silken thread. When this had failed, she had sung, struggling to recall the words the imp had so eerily spoken. Still, the straw did not gleam.

Now she sat, her twelfth basket in hand, praying once more that a single blade of it might be blessed. She was aware, in some recess of her panicked mind, that a strange and fearsome drive had taken hold. For though the truth of her fate loomed inescapably before her, she clung to her frenzied resolve.

She bent, plucking a portion of straw from the basket, and wound it swiftly about the spindle. Her fingers bled, raw with the effort of rubbing the coarsened threads, and she winced as she fed them gingerly into the wheel.

As before, it splintered, turning immediately to dust. She cried out, throwing the basket to the floor in frustration. The tears welled in her eyes, and she wiped them angrily away.

Had she lost her mind? What did she expect to achieve with this foolishness?

Her life consisted of a single day. Nothing less, and nothing more. At the very least she might spend her last hours recalling her memories, and enter her grave with a peaceful heart.

The imp would never return-this she knew. Whether she had dreamed him the first time she could not say, but there would be no second miracle to save her. The magic had been spent, and the spell had been broken. There would be no gold. Maerwyn closed her eyes, letting the tears roll down. Would death come softly, like a thief in the night? Or would it rage, tearing at her heart till the pain overwhelmed her? She touched her neck and shuddered, imagining the noose which would soon enclose it.

It would be a quick death, she imagined. The air, caught within her lungs, would be sealed. She would struggle, perhaps briefly, and then succumb. Her soul would be freed, soaring and heaven-bound. And there, in that wondrous place of peace, her mother's arms would embrace her.

_Mother._

Maerwyn opened her eyes, and pressed a hand to her throat. The familiar weight of her keepsake was gone, sold to the imp for his talents. And why? The act had not saved her. Instead it had damned her, ensuring her death at the hands of the king. Now she owned nothing, not even the comfort of a mother's blessing.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she wept harder, wrestling with the despair which engulfed her. How could she have been so thoughtless?

A knock sounded lightly at the door, and she flinched, wondering if the time had already come. When she did not answer, it sounded again. She rose, her body stiff from its hours bent over the wheel. Her feet dragged, leaden and weary. The wooden panel above the peep hole slid open at her approach, and two inquisitive gray eyes appeared within the darkness.

"Your Majesty!" She breathed, startled. Had he been chosen to escort her? Had the noose already been prepared?

The wooden panel slid shut again, and a rattling sounded in the keyhole as it was opened. She stepped backward as he entered, her heart pounding rapidly within her chest. Without the distraction of the guards and the overpowering presence of his father, the prince's appearance was strangely less daunting. Still, his aura was formidable, his broad shoulders held with the stateliness and inherent pride only born of royal blood.

She felt suddenly wretched, the dust coating her skirts in sharp contrast to the gleaming linens which made up his scarlet tunic. He stared at her as she watched him, his expression unreadable. "Why are you crying?" He demanded unexpectedly.

She blanched, immediately aware of the tears which still clung to her lashes. She brushed them away, ashamed.

"Answer me," he demanded, stepping closer.

Her head snapped up, unsettled by the authority in his tone. "I-I am grieving my father. I fear for him," she stumbled.

"He has been freed and rewarded, as we told you," the prince answered. "Does that not please you?"

"Oh yes," she rushed, "I am grateful. Only I fear...I fear for his..." she stopped, unable to continue.

"Sanity?" The prince supplied, as she looked at him in surprise. "Though your father has been released, he has been protesting at the palace gates for some time." His gray eyes regarded her solemnly, disconcertingly pale beneath the darkness of his hair. "He has been denying your gift, and proclaiming your innocence," the prince continued. "He has asked to be killed in your place, as he claims that he lied in an effort to evade his tax."

Maerwyn shrank backwards, unable to formulate a coherent response. Her hands shook visibly.

"What do you make of his claims?" The prince asked, regarding her contemplatively.

"I..." She began, her heart pounding. He inclined his head, waiting for her answer. She felt a brief moment of panic, a feeling which quickly dissolved in an unexpected burst of courage. She straightened her spine, summoning the last shred of dignity she could muster.

"My father is, and always has been, a man of the tavern. He drowns his sorrows in ale, and now that I am gone, my absence has saddened him further. My mother is dead you see, and he has no woman to care for him. His protests only veil his true grief, for I am his only child."

"I find it strange that he might protest so ardently on your behalf, when he has already been so handsomely rewarded in coin," the prince answered, regarding her speculatively. "Would any other man not take his money and be silent?"

"Not a man with love for his child," Maerwyn said stiffly. It was strange, but the moment the words fell from her lips, she knew them to be true. Her father loved her. He had, through the haze of his melancholy, at last seen the error of his ways. He wished to take her place-was this not the greatest sacrifice he could offer?

A sudden, empowering warmth began to fill her as these thoughts took hold. All these years she had wondered at his affections, certain his heart had died the day his wife had left the earth. Yet here, at last, he had shown her the truth. There was hope for her still.

"A man who loves his child," the prince repeated, "yet callously sells her talents to his king. An interesting turn of character."

Maerwyn stared at him silently, her resolve hardening. If he meant to break her, he would not succeed. Her tears had dried. They would not come again, no matter her fate. "My father is a good man, regardless of his faults," Maerwyn answered.

"You forgive him?" The prince questioned, as though intrigued.

"What have I to forgive?" Maerwyn answered cautiously.

"Your father might have made himself a very rich man with your gift, yet he chose to stake your life. You might have been a lamb to slaughter."

"Are you inferring I am a fraud?" Maerwyn asked, her voice tight. Her neck had prickled, her anxiety returning.

He shook his head. "No, that is not what I mean. You have proven your talent indisputably. I am speaking of his willingness to sacrifice his daughter so easily. It might have gone very badly for you, had your gift been exposed as a ruse."

"Why does it concern you what I think of him?" She asked, her voice unintentionally cold. The gray eyes regarded her silently, and she held them, equally staunch. There seemed to swell between them an intensity she could not place, a vibrancy which pulsed, enrobing them both in its spell. "Very well," he said at last, breaking the tension which encircled them. Something had shifted in his expression, and she realized with sudden wonder, that she recognized its source. It was a look of respect.

Before she could scrutinize him further, he had turned, pulling something from the folds of his tunic and placing it on the ground. When he moved, she saw it to be a candle and a loaf of bread. Her mouth opened in surprise, but he sent her only a curt nod before opening the door of the chamber. She stared after him as the lock rattled back into place, her thoughts whirling.

"And so it begins," came a voice from the shadows. Maerwyn spun around, her eyes searching the darkness. "Who is there?" She whispered, though she already knew. Her heart raced as the little figure entered calmly into the light, his hands laced composedly behind him. He stopped beside the spinning wheel, and regarded her interestedly.

"What shall you give me?" He asked, as though he had not been listening. Once more his inflection was child-like, almost pleading.

"I did not dream you," Maerwyn breathed, relief flooding her veins.

"What shall you give me?" He repeated.

"Bread!" Maerwyn said quickly. "As much as you'd like."

The imp tapped his foot impatiently, the beads on his belt swinging. "I have no use for bread," he replied, his voice rising. "What else?"

Maerwyn gazed helplessly about the room. "I...I can give you..." she struggled, racking her thoughts for something of value.

A dry, rough hand suddenly enclosed her own, pulling it forward. "What is this?" He demanded, examining her ring with unabashed interest.

"Oh!" Maerwyn said in surprise. She had forgotten the ring, though why he should want it, she did not know. Callum had woven it from dried sweet grass, for he could not risk to give her a silver one. It would have led to gossip, a precarious thing in light of his betrothal to Iseult.

"It's very good," the imp continued, pleased. Without warning, he slid it from her finger, placing it in a crevice within his tunic.

"But it...it has no worth," Maerwyn said, the words wounding her to speak. Callum had gifted her the ring out of devotion, and a vague, distant promise that she might one day be his bride. But here, in the murky light of the chamber, she could no longer deny such absurdity. She was at the mercy of the king, her very life dependant on his whim. What was she but a miller's daughter? All the gold in the world could not change her birthright. She was of peasant stock, and any children she might have given Callum would only serve to soil the bloodline.

Had she been so blind to believe it might be otherwise?

"It has no worth," Maerwyn repeated, feeling a small piece of her heart break as the words left her lips.

The imp did not answer, and indeed she wondered if he had heard her at all. He had placed himself on the stool of the spinning wheel, and pulled a spindle from his tunic, one she recognized as the same from the previous night. He seemed to pluck the straw from the air, rubbing it forcefully between his fingers before feeding it swiftly into the wheel. The energy of the chamber crackled, swirling invisibly about his form. His foot on the treadle increased, the straw sparking as his body took on its familiar rhythm. The room seemed to shake, spurred by the power which emanated from his hands, at once both visible and blurred as they danced above the spindle.

Maerwyn held her breath as his black eyes gleamed, as though lit by some internal fire. His tone turned to merriment, his laughter pleased yet cloying. It was enjoyment tinged with malice, and a shiver traveled up the length of Maerwyn's spine when she heard it. It unnerved her to find his presence so inscrutable, dancing formidably between the the wavering lines of darkness and light. She moved closer, unable to draw her eyes from the wheel. His fingers flew above the spindle, churning the atmosphere with their speed. The frenzy built till his form appeared nothing short of luminous, as though emanating with its power. And then, all at once, the straw was gold. It blossomed onto the spool, dazzling in its beauty.

Maerwyn gazed at it breathlessly. The wonder of it did not cease to amaze her. Within minutes the baskets were filled, and the chamber was left empty.

"How will I ever repay you?" Maerwyn gasped, falling to her knees in gratitude.

"We will see, we will see," the imp chirped as the light of the room appeared to dim. Then he was gone, disappearing without so much as a whisper. Maerwyn stared at the place he had only just stood, unease snaking swiftly through her heart. After some consideration, she brushed it away. He had saved her and expected almost nothing in payment. Questioning his origin would only serve to confuse her further-her miracle had appeared, and for that she would be thankful.

With this thought in mind, Maerwyn settled down to wait. For the first time her future appeared before her with clarity. Her father would be made a Lord! Their lives would be forever changed. She wondered suddenly, at her previous thoughts over bloodline. Perhaps she had been mistaken. Perhaps Callum's family would be open to accepting her, even though her father's title had been gifted. She would have a dowry now. The possibility existed.

Her body sank against the wall, wearied from the emotional turmoil of the day. The king would come soon, Maerwyn thought, her lids closing. He would have his gold, and then, at last, she would be free. Her mind stilled, and she slept.

It was some time later that she was jolted from her slumber by a pounding at the door. She rose unsteadily to her feet, rubbing at her eyes. The candle was merely a wick, implying several hours had passed. Had they come to collect the spools?

The door burst open before she could reach it, admitting six guards. Their armor clanked as they shuffled outwards, creating a path for the figure that waited in the shadow of the doorway. "His majesty, the king," a page announced, and Maerwyn bowed hastily. When she had risen, she watched his eyes travel the length of the room, absorbing the gleaming baskets.

"Well done," he said, allowing his gaze to rest on her. She felt pierced by his eyes, and shifted anxiously beneath them. He appeared pleased, yet somehow subdued, as though the gold had failed to shock him.

He made a motion with his hand, and two guards materialized at her sides, taking her roughly by the shoulders. This time she followed them mutely, too weary and overcome to speak. Though the kings intentions both frightened and eluded her, there was a new and comforting safety in knowing the imp would return. The certainty she felt in this calmed her, allowing her to be led up the many winding steps she had descended only short days before. They traversed the castle, the king walking imperially before them. He stopped at the end of a wide hallway, two gilded wooden doors before them. The page hastened to his side, opening the entrance and bowing them in.

Maerwyn's eyes widened as they entered. The room was magnificent, its walls and pillars enameled in the whitest of marble. Above them, the ceiling was ornately curved, its plunging ivory arcs reminiscent of a cathedral. A series of large, peaked windows stood to their left, their diamond patterned glass showering the floor in light. And everywhere, everywhere, there was straw, heaped in such enormous and overwhelming piles that it brushed the rafters of the ceiling.

The king pointed to the spinning wheel at the center of the room, and the multitude of spools which encircled it. There were hundreds, overflowing the baskets and lying in piles across the floor.

"This is your final task," he said, his deep voice echoing formidably about the cavernous room. Maerwyn stared at him, and suddenly felt the fear return. Could the imp achieve it? Was there finally too much to complete?

"You will fill each spool with gold," the king continued, "and when the dawn arrives, my guards will retrieve them." He gazed at her, and the greed within each pupil blazed, fierce beneath the glitter of his crown.

"Should you succeed, my son will take you as his wife."

The room stilled, and Maerwyn felt her blood run cold.

"And should I fail?" She whispered.

He did not answer, for she already knew.


	4. Chapter 4

Part Four

* * *

Maerwyn gazed about the room silently, anxiety overwhelming her. The wonder and wealth of it dazzled her, the marble so lustrous it was scarcely believable such beauty existed.

She approached a pillar, running her fingers gently over its surface. The smoothness contrasted sharply with the roughness of her hands, dry and callused from the chafing of the straw. She pulled them back, suddenly ashamed.

Was this to be her future? To reside in rooms such as this?

She moved to the windows, and gazed out at the moors which encircled the castle. Beyond them stood the forests, and beyond them the white tipped mountains, their enormity dwarfed by the clouds which billowed above them.

Her eyes roved further, catching on a single church spire rising from a distant clustering of cottages. Her breath caught as a sudden rush of longing filled her heart. It was the village. She had not expected to see it again. She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the glass as the king's parting words echoed within her mind.

Maerwyn, daughter of Ifan...wife to a prince?

She shook her head, as though denying the thought. What could the king want with a miller's daughter? And what could she bring to such a marriage but ignorance? She was of common blood, untaught and uncultivated. They would despise her.

Yet here she stood, on the verge of her final task. The king had promised her hand, had gifted her to a son she scarcely knew. Was his blessing not enough to warrant her worth? Had she not fulfilled his every desire? Her thoughts spun, spurring her fear. No, she reprimanded herself firmly. She would not doubt. Not now. Her path had been set, and she had walked it. She could only gaze up and moved toward the horizon which lay ahead.

She turned, catching the shards of her reflection in the window. The cut of the diamond shaped panels distorted her, resulting in a blur of a color. The beauty of it entranced her, and she stood, staring at it wonderingly. Then, suddenly and without thinking, as though in retribution to the anxiety which plagued her, she twirled. The colors within the glass spun in imitation.

She halted, breathless, her heart pounding in a way she could not remember. A warmth spread over her cheeks, a fullness rising soft and glowing within her chest. Her lips curved, and she smiled, twirling a second time. Her skirts spun out, her hair streaming behind her as her feet quickened, dancing lightly upon the stone.

"What shall you give me?"

Her eyes flew open as she whirled around. The imp stood beside the spinning wheel, his eyes probing.

"Oh!" She said in surprise, startled he had come so quickly. He looked at her impatiently, and she struggled to find a thought that would appease him.

"What shall I give you?" She repeated. "I have nothing at this time, but there will be-"

"-a marriage," the imp continued impatiently. "Yes, yes."

Maerwyn drew back, unsettled that he'd known. "Yes, there will...there will be a marriage, but I do not have-"

"Then I cannot help you," the imp said, turning his back to her.

"Please wait!" Maerwyn called, frightened. "I have something!"

The imp paused, his eyes suddenly curious.

"Jewels," Maerwyn said quickly. "I will pay you in jewels. They are certain to be in my wedding dowry, and if they do not please you, I will request any that you desire."

"I have no need of jewels," the imp answered, unimpressed.

"Any that you desire," Maerwyn repeated. "Be it rubies, emeralds, or diamonds... I will request them and pay you in full."

"What shall I do with a ruby?" The imp questioned, approaching her. "It is naught but a stone. A pauper's wish. I am not so foolish." He leaned closer, his eyes widening as his voice deepened in timbre. "I desire the unnamed thing."

"I can give you land," Maerwyn intercepted quickly. "As many acres as you wish. I need only ask the king."

The imp shook his head.

"Is it power you want? Prestige?" Maerwyn continued, slightly panicked. "Then I will give it to you."

The imp snorted. "Do not insult me. What use have I for such absurdity?"

She stared at him, at the gleaming orbs of his eyes, and the ruthlessness which had come to glow within them. In the light of the sun, his aura appeared stronger, his eerieness oddly magnified. Something sinister rested within his expression, a secret seemingly coiled and ready to spring. He drew her necklace from his pocket, and swung it tauntingly before her eyes.

"If you have nothing more of this, I shall leave you," he said, catching the trinket within his palm.

"But its value is nothing!" Maerwyn argued, overwhelmed. "You would request this over jewels? Over land? Over any other riches?"

"False," the imp interrupted, slipping the necklace back into his pocket. "Its value lies in the sacrifice."

"Sacrifice?" Maerwyn repeated.

"Yes. Yours." The imp replied, a sly, twisting smile stealing over his face. He began to circle her, his hands laced calmly behind him. "It pained you to part with. That is the gift I desire."

"Name it!" Maerwyn cried, the desperation within her rising. "What is your price?"

He paused, his eyes growing dark. "I want that which is inherently precious."

"I do not understand."

"The child," the imp answered simply. "That is my price."

"The child? What do you-" She stopped, sudden horror enveloping her. "You cannot mean..."

The imp waited, unmoved.

"You ask the impossible," Maerwyn whispered, her eyes filling with tears.

"I ask only what I am owed," the imp replied.

"I cannot give you my child!" Maerwyn cried.

"Very well," the imp said calmly. "Then I leave you to your king."

"He will not spare me!" Maerwyn gasped.

"Then make your choice."

It was as though a dagger had pierced her soul. To give this creature her unborn child? To gift him with a life she had not yet even seen? In what world did she posses the strength to do such a thing?

"I will go," the imp said, and turned from her.

"No! Please!" Maerwyn called, her mind racing. If she did not bear a child, there would be no child to give. It would be impossible to refuse the marriage, but intimacy afterward might be barred on the grounds that she declare herself barren.

It was a certainty both the King and his son would be greatly angered. The prince would sire his heirs elsewhere, and she would remain childless and shamed, relegated to a life of silence and assumably sent to a nunnery. Her heart ached as she realized the social isolation this implied, yet it was all she could do.

And what of her deception? A strange will overtook her as she considered it, a strength she had not known to exist hardening within her veins. If her soul were to burn for her falsehoods, she would pay her penance in full. For no hell fire she knew could surpass the guilt nor the agony of conferring the welfare of an innocent upon this creature.

"I will give you the child," Maerwyn said at last, her voice shaking.

The imp looked at her in surprise. "Your first born," he clarified, as though testing her.

"Yes," Maerwyn agreed.

The imp nodded, visibly pleased. "I will return in one years time, on the child's third day."

Maerwyn nodded, her throat tightening.

The imp turned, and walked briskly toward the spinning wheel. Within minutes, the room began to hum, engulfed by his familiar fire. The sunlight behind them seemed to dim, weakened in the face of his luminescence. A muttering passed his lips as his feet tapped and the wheel spun, the straw crackling between his hands.

Maerwyn stared at him silently, her heart leaden. What could he want with a child?

She shivered, remembering the sinister manner in which his lips had curled. She had been a fool to think she might escape him unscathed. Her debt was owed, and now he wished it paid. Could she truly outwit him?

His fingers plucked relentlessly at the straw, guiding it sharply onto the spindle. The energy of the room pulsated, bursting with power. It whispered through Maerwyn's spine, chilling her as it shivered through her bones. She felt at once both frightened and awed, aware she stood on the cusp of his sorcery and thereby perilously close to entrapment.

The gold was blinding, so luminous it ached to look at. It's luster only grew, surpassing its intensity in waves. The marble walls glittered, reflecting the flash of its light. And still it grew brighter, till the very orbs of Maerwyn's eyes burned with the agony of its beauty.

And then, all at once, it was gone.

She stirred, her body seemingly weary. A softness brushed her cheeks, rippling gently outward beneath her. She opened her eyes and gasped, teetering dangerously. She sat on a pile of spools, the gleaming threads of which winked gently in the fading light of the sun. She gazed downwards, and felt her stomach roll. She could never have climbed so high. Had the imp enchanted her sleep?

She rubbed her eyes, gazing cautiously about the room. Towers of gold encircled her, the spools stacked to such dizzying heights they appeared to sway, alarmingly unbalanced. Was this a warning? Had the imp guessed her deceit?

She moved her foot, attempting to right her position, and felt a dull rumble answer her. The spools beneath her began to shift as the base gave way, sliding rapidly across the marble floors. The shock of it caught her unawares, leaving her caught with the sensation of slowly falling as the towers about her collapsed in unison.

The roar of it seemed thunderous, the spools scattering in their journey to the ever-shifting ground. When Maerwyn opened her eyes a second time, she lay cushioned in an expanse of glimmering thread, every inch of the floor concealed.

It was there that they found her, the doors bursting wide to admit a jostling, chattering procession. When the sight of her was absorbed, a lone figure in a sea of gold, a hush fell over the crowd.

The king emerged from their depths, his eyes raking over the sight before him. There seemed a simultaneous holding of breath as he appeared to drink in the wealth which surrounded them, his countenance strangely immovable. Then, without warning, his lips curled upwards, his face emanating both pleasure and satisfaction.

"You have fulfilled your task," he said appreciatively, his voice ringing throughout the room. There was a successive release of breath, and Maerwyn found herself flooded with an overwhelming sense of relief.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Maerwyn whispered.

"On the feast of Saint Abaris," he continued, "three days hence, my son shall take you as his wife."

A low gasp rippled throughout the crowd, eliciting within her a sudden sense of unease. She had known, after the imp succeeded in turning the straw, that her marriage had been imminent. Yet to hear it spoken out loud before such a large gathering brought a realism to the words she had not been able to grasp.

Was she truly to be married? The notion appeared so foreign, she could scarcely comprehend it. And what of her deception? Would she be thrown out when her supposed inability to conceive became known? If not the nunnery, then where? What if the action was forced upon her? In such a case, her fertility could not be hidden. She would bear a child without question. Her heart began its frantic pounding, overwhelmed with the weight of her burden. Oh, how she wished her mother were present to guide her! How comforting the embrace of such love would be. How soothing in the midst of such uncertainty.

The king was nodding toward several guards. "Deliver these spools to the treasury, and see to it that she and her handmaidens are brought to her chambers."

"Wait, please!" Maerwyn called as the guards approached her.

The king halted as the crowd whispered curiously.

"If it would please Your Majesty, I wish to see my father," Maerwyn trembled. "I...I must see him," she whispered. "If only for an hour, before the wedding preparations begin."

The kings eyebrows rose. "And what urgency requires this?"

"None, Your Majesty," Maerwyn answered. "Only that...his heart is weak, and I fear my absence may have weakened it further. I ask only an hour, after which I will gladly submit to anything Your Majesty requests."

The king regarded her steadily. "Very well," he said at last. "However, let it be known that your father has chosen to remain at his mill, rejecting the offer of a palace residency. You will require a guard to escort you to the village."

"He did not come back?" Maerwyn said in surprise.

"It would appear your father prefers a mill over a manor, and filth over splendor. Nevertheless, he has been made a Lord, and may rule his plot of land as it pleases him," the king replied dismissively. "Gethin!"

A guard approached hastily, his armour clanking. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"Take her to the village. She will be given her hour. No more, and no less."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

The guard named Gethin nodded toward Maerwyn, and she fell hastily into line behind him, stunned her request had been granted. There was a sudden, and overwhelmingly freeing sensation to exiting through the chamber doors, as though a great weight had fallen from her shoulders.

She scarcely recalled the journey there, nor was she bothered by the discomfort of the saddle or the jostling of the horse. All she could envision was her father, and the words that he might speak. When Gethin drew the horse to a halt before the mill, her heart leapt within her, and she jumped from the saddle. Without thinking, she began to run, her feet imbued with an urgency she could not name. The door opened before she could reach it, and the bent and wearied figure of her father greeted her. He had aged greatly in their three days apart, his drunken ramblings of a daughter who spun straw to gold seemingly uttered years and years before. Had so little time really passed?

"Maerwyn," he wept, his eyes filling with tears. There was a pause, a minute in time where their existence appeared to stop, allowing the past to rush through in a wave of painful memory. She could almost see mother standing between them, her death the divider in their grief. Yet in that moment, her spirit glowed bright, absolving them at last.

And there, in that rush of peace, she embraced him, her cheeks wet with the rush of emotion which enveloped her.

"Maerwyn," he said brokenly, "forgive me."

She looked up, over his shoulder, at Gethin who waited patiently with the horse, at the cottages behind him, and far beyond that, the palace spires which rose up against the sky.

"I already have," she whispered back.


	5. Chapter 5

Part Five

* * *

Maerwyn stood uneasily at the center of a small chamber, two elegantly dressed noble women assessing her silently. Gethin had informed her of a celebratory feast to be held in her honor, and introduced her to the handmaids who had been given to assist her. They were Lady Ygritte and Lady Iona, both sisters and the daughters of Lord Cadfel, who came from the house of Bedwyr.

The words meant little to Maerwyn, who knew nothing of royal blood lines, and she had feigned her appreciation. It was however, apparent from the manner in which Gethin announced them, that the house of Bedwyr favored highly with the king. She forced herself to remember this as she cast her eyes down, struggling to retain her composure. She was sharply aware of the disparaging looks the women had cast on her clothing, and it would not do to displease them. She was certain any words which left her lips would find their way to the king.

"You may leave us now, Gethin," said the one called Ygritte, a tall, shapely woman with an abundance of dark hair tucked beneath a silken veil.

Gethin nodded, bowing himself from the room.

"You're a slight little thing," Lady Ygritte commented, circling Maerwyn thoughtfully. "Gaelan should be notified, if she is to complete the dress."

"Shall I bring her, sister?" Lady Iona inquired.

"Yes, and the fabrics as well," Lady Ygritte answered. She motioned towards Maerwyn. "Come. I will show you where you are to sleep."

Maerwyn followed her to a wooden door engraved with roses. "It is the betrothal chamber," Lady Ygritte said, by way of explanation. "When the ceremony has concluded, your quarters shall naturally be exchanged for those of the prince."

Maerwyn shivered, disliking the reminder of what was to come. She felt nothing but fear at the repercussions her eventual declaration of barrenness might bring. It was consummation which sealed the vow. She could not bear to think of how she might avoid it.

Lady Ygritte opened the door, distracting Maerwyn from her plight momentarily. It was a large room, and richly furnished, its stone walls hung with a series of tapestries depicting court life. At its center stood a four-poster bed, its curtains and bed cover sewn of finely embroidered blue silk. As Maerwyn drew closer, she saw its wooden pillars had been carved with flowers and an assortment of delicately cut leaves. Beside it, on the nightstand, stood a silver candelabra and beneath it a polished hand mirror.

"Close you mouth, child," Lady Ygritte smiled, "have you not seen finer things than this?"

Maerwyn blushed. "I beg your pardon, My Lady. I am overwhelmed."

"By blue silk?" An elderly voice scoffed. "I thought the lass spun gold."

A short, thin woman with thick white hair swept up in a braided knot had entered the room. She was followed by Lady Iona, who carried a small wooden trunk.

"Gaelan, you have found us," Lady Ygritte said warmly.

"As though I had a choice," Gaelan grumbled, opening the trunk. "A wedding gown in three days! I believe the king means to kill me."

Lady Ygritte laughed. "Nonsense."

"Nonsense indeed," Gaelan snorted, holding up a piece of red fabric to Maerwyn's waist. "Can you enchant my needle girl?" She shook her head. "And now a day gown as well. My old fingers shall bleed tonight."

"I can help you," Maerwyn offered quickly, feeling guilty. The three women paused, staring at her. Then Gaelan chuckled, breaking the silence. "Your days of needlework are past, girl. The only work to be done is in softening those hands." She motioned toward the calluses which still covered Maerwyn's palms. The women nodded in agreement as Maerwyn snatched them away, flustered at their examination.

"Now I've been told to dress you, and dress you I will," Gaelan said sternly, pulling another piece of soft blue fabric from her trunk. She held the piece to Maerwyn's waist, and affixed it with several pins. Then she pulled back, assessing it.

"Slender as a willow," she remarked. "Tis pleasant in a gown, but a horror for childbirth. Well, so it goes."

"Come now Gaelan," Lady Ygritte reproached her. "The queen was a slight thing on her marriage, and she birthed three healthy sons."

"That she did, and where's she now?" Gaelan scoffed. "Under a stone. Poor lass couldn't bear the pain. It's Lucan that did her in. Such a difficult birth that was."

Maerwyn paled, her heart beating painfully within her chest. Could she have been so foolish to believe she might escape her fate of bearing a child? Oh, what had she done! The imp would have his prize and he had known it. She swallowed, nausea enveloping her.

"There, that will be enough," Gaelan said, whipping out the pins. "I shall have the day gown by sun down."

Lady Ygritte nodded her thanks as Gaelan packed up her trunk.

"Now, to the bath child," Lady Iona said pleasantly, talking Maerwyn by the arm.

"The bath?" Maerwyn repeated, startled. Lady Iona only smiled, pulling aside a curtain within the chamber. Behind it, an iron tub steamed, several bottles of precious oils standing beside it.

Maerwyn allowed them to undress her in a daze, the heat of the water a seemingly unearthly pleasure. She gasped as a bucket was poured over her head, her body scrubbed till the filth of the dungeons fairly floated away. When she had been dried, and her long hair combed, they set about smoothing her palms and feet. She stared in amazement as the women applied various lotions and creams, feeling as though her very soul had been polished. It was not the cleanliness which shocked her, but rather the luxury which accompanied it. She could not recall being treated so highly.

"I have finished!" Gaelan said, pulling aside the curtain triumphantly.

"So soon?" Lady Iona said, impressed.

"I've still a few tricks in my basket. She was similar in size to my daughter. The skirt only needed hemming."

Maerwyn was whisked from her robe, and into the gown, a bell-sleeved red dress with full skirts and a blue overlay. When they had arranged her hair, Lady Iona presented the mirror.

Maerwyn stood still, the reflection gazing back at her. "Oh," she said quietly, her tone evident of her surprise.

"A princess unveiled," Lady Iona smiled.

_A princess._

Maerwyn felt a rush of the old anxiety return. How had she come this far? She had spent three days fearing for her life, wishing only to be freed. Now she was, yet the cage still enclosed her. She would be wife to a prince, bound by duty and all it entailed. Had she conquered one evil only to gain another?

"Tsh, look at the poor thing shake," Gaelan said lightly.

Lady Iona placed a hand on Maerwyn's shoulder. "Not to worry child, you are certain to please him."

"Who?" Maerwyn asked, shaken from her thoughts.

"Why, the prince of course," Lady Iona answered. "Is that not what ails you?"

In truth, Maerwyn had not yet given a thought to his opinion. She had been so consumed with her fears over the imp, the marriage itself, while daunting, seemed a minor event. Her energy had been wholly focused into preventing what occured afterwards.

"An interesting one, that Lucan," Gaelan began thoughtfully, "what, with three of these-"

"Gaelan," Lady Ygritte said warningly. "Now," she continued, turning to Maerwyn, "there will be several toasts made tonight, and several gestures required of you. I will explain them all. If you execute them correctly, there should be none to find fault."

"Gestures?" Maerwyn repeated. "Gethin said this was only to be a celebratory feast."

"Yes, a celebration of your betrothal. Did you not wonder at our preparations of you?" Lady Ygritte said, waving her hand over Maerwyn's dress.

"What gestures are required of me?" Maerwyn asked nervously, suddenly realizing the implications this celebration implied.

"First, you will be shown to the court," Lady Ygritte began, "and then-"

"Shown to the court?" Maerwyn whispered, her heart plummeting.

"Yes, but that is simply the beginning. After the king has announced you, he will..." Lady Ygritte's voice faded into obscurity as Maerwyn's panic overcame her. She recalled with distinct clarity the curious eyes which had followed her upon her first entry to the palace. She could only imagine what had been gossiped about since then. A girl who spun gold! A miller's daughter! Her thoughts returned to those which had plagued her within the marble chamber. They would despise her.

"Do you understand?" Lady Ygritte said, her voice returning. Maerwyn nodded mutely, her mind struggling to recall what had just been uttered.

"Then come," she said, motioning toward Maerwyn, "they will soon be ready."

Maerwyn followed her toward the great hall, which bustled with activity. A fireplace blazed at its end, several servants poking at its embers. A long wooden feasting table had been erected at its center, and large, floor standing candle holders illuminated its many dishes. Maerwyn let her eyes rest on a particularily elaborate plate of wild duck, its base garnished with an assortment of herbs.

"There," Lady Ygritte said, directing her attention toward a higher table erected to the right. The king had already been seated, his gaze travelling coolly across the room. "I shall introduce you now," Lady Ygritte said. "Remember what we spoke of."

Maerwyn nodded, her hands clenched within the folds of her skirt. When they had reached the table, Lady Ygritte swept into an elegant curtsey.

"Your majesty," she said, ushering Maerwyn into his presence. Maerwyn mimicked her curtsey, lifting her eyes slowly as the king appraised her. To her surprise, he appeared pleased.

He made a movement with his hand to dismiss Lady Ygritte. When she had left, he pointed toward a chair two places beside him. Maerwyn seated herself hastily. Already, she could feel curious eyes roaming over her form, several of the nobility turning around in their seats to examine her.

A movement to her right alerted her to a new presence. It was the prince, taking his seat beside her. If it were possible, her heart beat faster. His proximity unnerved her. As though sensing this, his eyes met her own, and he inclined his head in greeting. It was the first time she had allowed herself to study him fully, for her time in the dungeons had brought too much distraction to allow otherwise. Though his likeness to his father was evident, something told her he most strongly resembled his mother. When he allowed it, there was a softness to his eyes most assuredly inherited from the queen. She had loved him dearly, Maerwyn thought suddenly. There was something about his demeanor which allowed her to sense it.

"Do I please you?" He said suddenly.

Maerwyn froze, her cheeks flushing scarlet.

"I-I..." She stuttered.

A deep laugh sounded behind them, and a dark haired young man slapped Lucan good-naturedly on the back. He resembled Lucan strongly, though his eyes were brown. "Come now, let the lass look," the man teased. "You've had your turn."

Lucan seemed to smile in spite of himself. "As have you, I assume."

"But of course," the man grinned, winking at Maerwyn, who flushed further. "Might I introduce myself to your little sorceress?"

Maerwyn's breath quickened. "I am not a-"

"I am Elric," he said, interrupting her. "Brother to the heir, and collector of tales. I have heard plenty of yours." He seated himself to her left, and leaned forward curiously. "Tell me, how did you come to inherit this most fascinating gift? My father could hardly bear to part himself from your golden spools to attend this evening."

"A...a gift from the Gods," Maerwyn whispered in response.

"The Gods?" Elric repeated. "I've prayed plenty, they've yet to bless me with even a good sparring partner." He looked meaningfully at Lucan, who rolled his eyes.

"But then," Elric continued, "one might argue a pretty face brings better incentive." He smiled, fingering a curl of her hair.

"Elric," Lucan said, in a tone that suggested annoyance.

"He's one to complain," Elric snorted. He leaned closer to her, his voice lowering. "He's spent half his time outside the dungeon doors."

Maerwyn stared at him. "Do you mean when I was-"

"Had I known what he was was peeping at, I might have joined him," Elric interjected, smirking.

Before Maerwyn could think of an appropriate response, the king has risen in his seat. A trumpet blared from behind them as the hall stilled, all eyes focused on their table.

"My lords, my ladies," he began, a golden goblet in his right hand. "Today we feast in celebration of the betrothal of my son, Prince Lucan." A cheer rose up from the crowd, the sound echoing about the hall until the king raise his left hand to silence it.

"He is joined today by his betrothed, Maerwyn, daughter of Ifan."

Maerwyn rose slowly in her seat, her heart hammering within her. She cast her eyes upon the floor, unable to meet the inquiring gaze of the crowd.

"Though common by blood, she has been endowed with a most unusual gift," the king continued. "The gift of spinning straw to gold."

A low gasp rippled throughout the crowd. "Rather than squandering her talents," the king went on, "her father, my loyal subject, presented them to me. In gratitude, I utilized them to the benefit of the kingdom and its people. The royal treasury has been restored."

Another cheer rose from the crowd. "In her sharing of this talent," the king continued, "I saw the blessing of the Gods, and thus the blessing of our people. This union shall be rewarded with both power and prosperity." He paused. "On the day of St. Abaris, they shall be wed. I hereby present them to you."

Lucan rose beside her as the crowd shouted in approval, interlacing his hand with her own as he raised it above them. Lady Ygritte had explained it to be a sign of their impending unity, though Maerwyn could not help but feel conscious of the manner in which his touch affected her. His grasp was firm, the largeness of his palm engulfing her own. As goblets were raised, the king completed his toast. When he had finished, the crowd drank deeply.

"Did you father not wish to come?" Lucan asked as he released her hand and seated himself.

"He will attend the wedding," Maerwyn answered evasively, unable to focus her attention fully. She was feeling rather light-headed, and overwhelmed at what had just occurred. It would not have surprised her to learn she was dreaming, seated here amongst royalty, wearing the finest gown she had ever owned.

"My father informed me he wished to stay at his mill," Lucan continued, as though this interested him. "He will not join us to live at the palace?"

"He prefers his fields," Maerwyn answered. Her heart ached suddenly.

_As do I._

"You seem saddened," he remarked, picking up on her sudden turn of emotion.

"We have a good bit of land, though it fell on hard times." Maerwyn answered by way of explanation. "There is much to love."

"And what do you make of court?" He continued, leaning forward as a lock of dark hair fell across his forehead.

"It is nothing I could have imagined," Maerwyn said truthfully.

"Then it impresses you?" He asked.

She reddened slightly, disliking how this comment implied her ignorance of such things.

"Yes, very much so," she answered honestly again.

"And what would impress me in your fields?" He asked, regarding her steadily.

She hesitated, unsure of his meaning. Was he goading her? Was there some response she was not meant to utter? His tone appeared genuine, yet his statement implied arrogance.

"Their beauty," she said slowly, deciding to take the chance. "They contain a wealth not visible in your treasury. It is the wealth of sound and sight. The wind in the pines, and the geese in the pond. When the wheat sways, it rustles together, and the sound is like a song."

"Is our lute player not to your satisfaction?" He asked, motioning toward a man playing a lively tune near the fireplace.

"No, no," Maerwyn said quickly. "It is not the song of instruments. It is the song of wind and sky. There is a poet, in my village, he-" She stopped, her face burning. What did this interest him? He sought only to humiliate her.

"Go on?" He probed.

"Your majesty," she said quickly, "I would rather not-"

"Lucan," he corrected.

"Lucan," she repeated awkwardly. "I would rather not-"

"What did the poet say?" He asked.

She gazed back at him, unsettled by the blankness of his expression. She could not read his intentions, and it confused her. Would he laugh? She averted her eyes and recited it. "Fields of gold/Fields of wheat/Bread upon the harvest seat/Raised in wind/Bathed in sun/Gleaned until the Harvest's done."

She looked at him nervously. "It's a children song," she said quickly. "He made it for them."

"I should like to hear you sing it," he said, surprising her. His eyes suddenly glowed warm.

"Oh, I couldn't," she said quickly.

"Later then," he smiled, and her cheeks flushed at the sight.

"Yes, of course your majesty," she answered immediately.

He stared at her, his eyebrows raised.

"Lucan," she correct swiftly.

"Better," he agreed. "Now come, my father wishes to present us with the marriage wreath."

"A wreath?" Maerwyn questioned.

"I will show you."

She nodded, and took his proffered arm, and together they traversed the hall toward his father.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

* * *

Maerwyn awoke to sunlight, its beams streaming gently through the glass of her latticed window. She rubbed her eyes, turning over sleepily, aware her cot felt unusually soft. She ran her fingers idly along the length of the blankets hem, marveling at its smoothness.

_Silk._

Her eyes widened, and she sat upright, her eyes scanning the room. She was at the palace, and she had slept in the betrothal chamber. Yesterday, the king had gifted her with a marriage wreath. Was she truly awake? Or had she dreamed her new fortune into existence?

She cupped her face in her hands, breathing deeply in an effort to still her troubled soul. It was difficult to absorb the enormity of what had occured to her, and she found she could scarcely remember the events of the previous day. She had been bathed, she had been dressed, she had been sent to meet the king. Yet the emotions she'd felt inbetween each event seemed lost, as though the Maerwyn she knew herself to be had not been fully present.

She had forced herself into calmness she realized suddenly, approaching each new challenge with a dazed sort of acceptance.

By the saints! Had she not shared a meal with the prince? It was clear a test had been at hand. And what had she decided to speak of? Her wheat fields! It was certain she had failed his interrogation.

Maerwyn felt her breath quicken as the panic began to rise. She was on the cusp of tears when the door opened, and Lady Ygritte entered carrying a porcelain basin and pitcher.

"I trust you slept well?" She inquired, offering Maerwyn a soft smile as she pulled back the bed curtains. Maerwyn nodded, feeling oddly exposed.

"The king has assigned Lady Ceiris as your tutor," Lady Ygritte said off-handedly, pouring water into the basin.

"My tutor?" Maerwyn repeated, puzzled.

Lady Ygritte nodded. "She will be educating you in the feminine arts."

"Do you mean the manner in which to run a household? Cooking, cleaning, and needlework? I assure you I am proficient in all of them."

Lady Ygritte laughed. "But can you read child?"

Maerwyn blushed. "No, My Lady."

"Lady Ceiris will be instructing you in the pursuits of a high-born lady-reading, writing, music, and etiquette. There will be no need of cooking or cleaning."

"Of course My Lady," Maerwyn answered, feeling suddenly foolish for even considering her skills worthy.

"Do not trouble yourself," Lady Ygritte said kindly. "It is understandable that being of common blood you have not been educated in the requirements of your station. Both Lady Ceiris and I shall aid you in the transition."

Maerwyn stared at her silently, feeling every part of her peasant ancestry burning shamefully within her.

"Have I offended you?" Lady Ygritte said suddenly, alarmed. "Forgive me child, the mouth works without the mind. "

"Am I hated?" Maerwyn whispered quietly, loathing herself for the fear so pitifully apparent within her voice. "Am I hated within the court?"

"Hated?" Lady Ygritte repeated, startled. "Child, you are envied! You have restored the kingdoms wealth. Not even a queen could entice the kings son to another-" She stopped abruptly, her face pale.

"Yes?" Maerwyn questioned.

"Ah, there it goes again," Lady Ygritte said quickly. "I've a sharp tongue, make no mind of it." She picked up a face cloth, and handed it to her. "There, it's prepared. I have placed lemon in the water, it is quite cleansing for the skin. Wash quickly now, we haven't much time."

"What is a lemon?" Maerwyn asked, dipping the cloth into the basin. Her face burned lightly as she touched it to her cheek, and she winced.

"A fruit," Lady Ygritte said, opening a closet door and pulling out several articles of clothing. "It's quite unpleasant to eat. It's very tart. The king's trade merchants bring them to us from Spain."

"How far is the village?" Maerwyn asked curiously.

"What village child?"

"The village of Spain."

Lady Ygritte gave her a strange look. "Tis a country child, though it's better you've asked. I shall request Lady Ceiris include geography in her lessons."

"Geography," Maerwyn repeated slowly. "Another fruit?"

"Never mind that now," Lady Ygritte repeated hastily. "The prince has requested your presence. Gaelan was so kind as to bring her daughters riding dress this morning. It is perhaps slightly too big, but no matter."

"He wishes me to ride?" Maerwyn asked, surprised.

"The prince has a great love of the outdoors," Lady Ygritte explained, tugging a gown over Maerwyn's head. "He enjoys the tranquilty, or so I am told."

Maerwyn felt her cheeks burn. She had schooled him on the beauty of wind and sun and he had been in agreement all along! Why had he indulged her?

"There," Lady Ygritte said, sounding pleased. Maerwyn shifted uncomfortably as she turned in a circle for inspection. The bodice was laced overly tight, and the heavy material of the dress itched.

"Now I shall arrange you hair, and then we are finished," Lady Ygritte said, pulling out a comb and an abundance of pins. When Maerwyn's hair had been artfully braided, Lady Ygritte held up the hand mirror.

"It's lovely," Maerwyn said, immediately averting her eyes. She had learned quickly that she disliked looking at her reflection for she did not recognize the face within it. It was not a miller's daughter who gazed back.

"Let us go," Lady Ygritte said, gathering up her skirts. Maerwyn nodded, and followed her to the castle's inner courtyard where an elderly stable hand stood waiting. He wore a rough grey tunic, and pants that had been thoroughly patched. He seemed to straighten as Maerwyn neared him, rubbing at the stubble on his chin anxiously.

"Brys, My Lady," he said, introducing himself. He bowed awkwardly, and Maerwyn performed an equally wobbled curtsy in return. He cleared his throat, and patted the horse waiting silently beside him.

"This here is a gentle mare," he said, patting her brown mane appreciatively. "The slowest palfrey you'll ever meet. Have you ridden before?"

"Not much," Maerwyn admitted. "A few times, on my neighbours plow horse."

Brys raised his eyebrows. "I assure you My Lady, this is no plow horse. She's well bred and well mannered. Come now, I'll help you up." He interlaced his hands as a foot hold, and she stepped up, adjusting herself in the seat. She had declined to tell Brys that she had not ridden the plow horse with a saddle, and thus had no concept of the steering or rein movements.

"There now, simple," he said, giving the horse another pat. "Her name is Iberia. She likes a scratch behind the ears."

"Thank you," Maerwyn said, unsure of how to reply.

"Now, a quick lesson," Brys said, launching into an explanation of how to ride. When he had finished, he cocked his head to the side as though he was uncertain she'd been listening.

"Understood?" He asked.

"Yes," Maerwyn lied, tightning her grip on the reins.

"Brys, I assume you will be joining us?"

Maerwyn looked up at the sudden male voice. It was Lucan, cantering toward them on the most beautiful horse she had ever seen. It was slender, yet muscled, and seemed built for speed. Its coat gleamed black, its dark mane stirring silkily in the wind.

"That I am," Brys said, bowing. "I will get Bran from the stables." Maerwyn watched him hurry away, and sent a questioning glance toward Lady Ygritte. The older woman moved forward, lowering her voice so that Maerwyn strained to hear.

"You require an escort, as you are unmarried. Brys shall attend to you," she said. Before Maerwyn could question her, she had drawn back and resumed her normal tone.

"Your majesty, if it be in your favor, I shall now see to my sister the Lady Iona," Lady Ygritte said, curtsying.

Lucan nodded, making a motion with his hand to show that she had been dismissed. Lady Ygritte cast a quick look over her shoulder as she departed, her eyes seemingly motherly as though wishing her luck. Maerwyn felt her mouth go dry as she watched the older woman leave, feeling utterly unprotected without her familiar presence.

"How did you find your quarters?" Lucan said, bringing Maerwyn sharply to attention.

"They are beautiful," she answered nervously. "The bed is...is magnificent."

He gave an unexpected smile. "It was my mothers, in her youth. She had it made specifically to her design."

"Did she have a garden?" Maerwyn asked, remembering the intricate flowered woodwork of the bedposts.

"Yes, several," Lucan said. "Why do you ask?"

"The motif of the bed has many flowers." Maerwyn answered.

"Ah yes, her roses," he said, as though recalling a well loved story. "It was said that a single touch of her hand would bring them to bloom."

"Was it true?"

"No, simply fire-side gossip," he said. "Though she was very adept at nurturing them to life, even after the fiercest of winters."

Brys came suddenly between them, riding the horse Maerwyn assumed to be Bran.

"We may begin," Lucan said appreciatively. He gave a short tug to his reins, and his horse broke into a canter. Maerwyn's horse, Iberia, instinctively followed suit. As they exited the castle walls, Maerwyn turned Lucan's words over in her mind. There had been a surprising vulnerability to the story of his mother and a wounded tone to his voice as he told it. It was a tone Maerwyn knew well, for it was the sound of grief. He had loved her.

A low snorting noise broke Maerwyn suddenly from her reverie. She looked to her horse, who plodded placidly along the moors. The mare was silent. The noise sounded again, and Maerwyn turned in time to see Brys bob forward in the saddle, his shoulders slack.

A laugh bubbled up in her throat. He was sleeping. She watched as his head nodded forward and he released another snore. They were traversing rockier ground now, and Bran was struggling. The horse's hoof dipped, and Brys was snapped awake. He shook himself, gazing about him in confusion. When he met Maerwyn's eyes, he offered her a bashful smile.

"An old man will close his eyes when he can," he said. Maerwyn nodded in understanding.

"Brys!" Lucan called. "Does the stream not cross here?" He had ridden far ahead, and had halted at the edge of the wood.

Brys rubbed his stubble thoughtfully. "I believe so, though it is possible the draught cleared it."

"I wouldn't allow it!" The prince laughed, and Maerwyn stared at Brys in surprise.

"Was that a jest?" She whispered.

"I believe it was," Brys answered. "Perhaps his porridge was well sweetened this morning." He winked at her, and for some reason Maerwyn felt herself grow hot. They travelled in silence as the trees about them grew thicker, the air cooling from the shade. Maerwyn watched as Brys nodded forward again, Bran the horse plodding slowly beneath him.

"How do you like it?" Lucan said, drawing up suddenly beside her.

"It's lovely," Maerwyn said, taken aback by his sudden proximity.

"I came here often as a boy," he said, seeming almost wistful. His turned toward her, his gray eyes eager. "Would you like to see my bridge?"

"Yes, of course," Maerwyn said, wondering what he meant.

"Follow me," he instructed. "It's only a short way down."

"But Brys will not know where we've-" Maerwyn began.

Lucan made a dismissive motion with his free hand. "Bran knows the path by heart. He'll return Brys to the palace."

"Even when he is asleep?" Maerwyn said doubtfully.

"Bran is an old horse. They've a common bond. Not to worry."

Lucan turned, and began to descend a grassy hill, it's surface marred by the exposed roots of several gnarled trees. Maerwyn cast a last look at the disappearing form of Bran, who seemed as sleepy as his rider, then followed him.

Within several minutes they had reached a narrow clearing with a stream running through its center. Lucan stopped, jumping easily from his horse. When he had tied its reins, he approached Iberia and put out his hands.

"What is it?" Maerwyn asked, puzzled.

"I am helping you dismount," he said, and though his face appeared unmoved, there was mirth in his tone.

"Oh yes, of course," she said quickly. She leaned forward and let him grasp the sides of her waist, setting her gently on the ground. She immediately averted her eyes, uncertain of where to look. She was sharply aware of the prints his hands had seemingly left on her hips. She could feel the lingering strength of them.

"This is my bridge," he said, guiding her toward the head of the stream. An intricate construction of stones and twigs had been constructed above the water. Though rough in appearance, Maerwyn could see it had been fortified with some form of daub.

"Its lasted four years, though I've fixed it some after the winters," he said, adjusting a pebble within the wall. "I proposed to my father we build a true one over the Eirian river, in order to aid in the transport of crops during the harvest."

"Oh yes, it's a tremendous source of trouble," Maerwyn said, brightening at the sound of a topic she knew. "Though the river is very beautiful. What did your father...what did the king say?"

Lucan shrugged, settling down upon the grass. "He wasn't for it. He was...ah, its nothing of importance."

Maerwyn sat down across from him. "Are you certain?"

Lucan looked away, fiddling with a piece of grass at his feet. "We were at war with Alera at the time. He had drained the treasury on our military in an effort to increase protection. Of course, if the crops could be transported more efficiently, we might have sold them quicker and thus reimbursed ourselves the loss of coin." Lucan sighed. "He did not understand this, though I explained it thoroughly. He did not see the need."

Maerwyn nodded sympathetically, and he snorted suddenly in response. "Do I bore you?" He asked. "I am certain you have no interest in military matters much less financial ones."

"I am not educated in them," Maerwyn said carefully. "I do, however, understand your frustration."

"Do you?" He said, looking directly into her eyes for the first time. Maerwyn nodded as her eyes similtaenously took in his attire. He wore a closely fit leather riding jerkin over a white, long sleeved tunic and embossed leather boots. He seemed at ease, unlike the stiff posture he upheld in his silken doublets. Perhaps he favored less spectacle and pageantry.

He made a low sound in his throat, catching her attention, and she realized she had forgotten to answer.

"I do," she said hastily. "Truly."

"You seem a dreamer," he said, studying her. "Your eyes appear to drift, as though they gaze on something else."

"Do they?" Maerwyn said apologetically. "It is not my intention, please forgive me."

"What should you say if I did not forgive you?" Lucan asked unexpectedly.

"I...I should beg your forgiveness," Maerwyn said, feeling frightened.

"I doubt you should ever need it," Lucan said thoughtfully. "You do not seem the sort to cause grief."

Maerwyn swallowed nervously, pushing the imps threat from her mind.

"I...I wish to please you," she said, aware of the intensity with which he now looked at her.

"You do," he replied simply.

She reddened, though relief washed through her.

"It would also be shameful of me to withold forgiveness," he continued, "when you have shown the greatest act of it."

When she said nothing, he leaned forward. "You dislike speaking of your father. Why?"

"As do you of yours," she responded, the words flying from her mouth unthinkingly.

He leaned back, thoughtful again. "Ah," he said, as though this explained something.

"The clover blossoms are in bloom," she said quickly, in an effort to change the subject. "They are so lovely."

"Yes," he said distractedly.

She plucked one, admiring the lilac flower. "Shall we drink?" She asked, hoping to garner a smile. He stared at her, his expression puzzled.

"Don't you know?" She asked in surprise. "Every child knows!"

"I do not understand," he said, regarding her curiously.

"You pluck the clover petal and drink. The nectar is very sweet." She put a petal to her lips, pulling the sweetness from its cupped center. "Take any," she encouraged, motioning toward the clover patches which clustered within the grass around them.

He moved forward unexpectedly, reaching out to take the flower from her hand. She watched, startled, as he proceeded to pluck a petal.

"It's very pleasant," he said, after he had tasted it. He handed the flower back to her, his fingers brushing hers in the process. When he stared at her expectantly, she realized he wished her to continue. She plucked another petal, passing it back and forth between them till the petals were finished.

"Shall we return?" He asked, rising.

She nodded, accepting the hand he offered her as she pulled herself up. Once more, the warmth lingered, his touch seemingly leaving a print on her palm.

He turned from her her, bending down to retrieve something from the grass. When he approached her again, she saw he had plucked another flower.

"Oh I do not wish any more," she said, "though I am grateful that-"

"It is not for you to eat," he said, grinning for the first time. It altered his features dramatically, lending him a boyish handsomeness she had not yet seen. She stood still as he drew closer, his fingers brushing the sides of her temple as he wove the clover into place. When he had settled it securely within her hair, he stood back, assessing her.

She flushed beneath his inspection, aware of his proximity. He was directly before her, and she was suddenly aware of his breathing and the rise and fall of his chest. His eyes had dropped from the clover to her own, and emanated with an intensity that made her shiver. His gaze was unnerving, yet steadfast, and there was warmth within it.

She felt her heart quicken as his head dipped, his hair falling forward. Then he paused, as though caught, and slowly drew back.

"Iberia seems restless," he said, catching her off guard. "Shall I steady her for you?"

"Yes...thank you," Maerwyn said, trying to maintain her composure. Her pulse raced, and the palms of her hands blazed hotly.

"There will be rain," he said, gazing upwards. "We should depart quickly."

"Yes," Maerwyn said again, still fighting her confusion. She took a last look at his bridge, and the stream which burbled beneath it. Then she turned, and followed him.


End file.
